


you can still take a bite

by harryslovechild



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, aka where louis works, and harry just wants to be cinderella, basically harry likes louis' bum and stares at him always from the corner by burgeria, burgeria is literally a three dollar burger shop tbh, dont question me, louis' bum is so important, niall plus larry equals him being happier than cupid, this is so dumb pls read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-03
Updated: 2015-03-03
Packaged: 2018-03-16 03:18:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3472481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harryslovechild/pseuds/harryslovechild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy doesn’t even have to turn around, Harry can see the curve of his bum from where he is, peeking around the corner looking at him like he’ll magically make up Harry’s mind. </p><p>‘Why yes, Harry Styles, you should buy a burger from ‘ol Burgeria here. Would you like some ketchup, mustard, or maybe my buns with that?’</p>
            </blockquote>





	you can still take a bite

**Author's Note:**

> im sorry what even is this i wrote this in two hours when i should be doing math hw
> 
> fuck u math larry is what my life revolves around not u

Harry’s not exactly sure when he first  _saw_  him—isn’t technically sure he’s seen correctly when his eyes do land on the mystery bloke’s round, tan bum cheeks wrapped up in a tight pair of Lycra shorts (they’re  _see through_ , if the image of this fantastic, big bum of his was  _not enough_ ), might not even be positive if he’s taken too many sleeping pills or if it’s his morning energy drink— _hey_ , they keep him awake, okay?—playing with his head. But, it’s like,  _woah,_ you know, seeing these high, sharp cheekbones coated in dabs of rose, shark blue eyes that practically burn with mischief and muscles in a white, graphic tee that show, okay and  _glow,_ every time he flexes one way or the other. He’s small and curvy, holding onto a “get your own burger here for only $3.00” card, and those thighs—sweet holy jesus,  _them thighs_ —they make Harry’s day brighter than the sun ever will. 

 

 

 

The guy doesn’t even have to turn around, Harry can see the curve of his bum from where he is, peeking around the corner looking at him like he’ll magically make up Harry’s mind.  _Why yes, Harry Styles, you should buy a burger from ‘ol Burgeria here. Would you like some ketchup, mustard, or maybe my buns with that?_

“Only three dollars, get your burger here for only three dollars,” the guy says, but there’s sass in his posture—you can tell by the way his hands are fiddling by his hips, Harry’s an  _excellent_ body language expert, thank you—and a second later a hand flies out from the two glass doors and that hand is smacking him on the head.  _That poor, poor shaggy hair,_ Harry thinks. 

 

He’s brushing a finger along the brick wall right then, coming closer to actually walking by the burger guy, and Harry feels it _in_ his steps. His leather, dark cascading shoes with signature embossment tattooed on the side of his big toe can feel the crush of the rocks from the cement, can taste the familiarity of—of…  _wait_. Wait, is that—is that Nick Grimshaw’s voice? The voice that laughed in his face when he silly stringed Harry’s face while he was asleep in maths?

 

No.  _No_. This is Harry’s chance to saunter on up, grab mystery bloke’s broadened, sweaty…  _milky_ … oh, Harry bets this beautiful, blessed with an arse boy has a poison lurking deep in his veins, waiting for unsuspecting curly haired seventeen year olds to bite in, and then— _bam, clap, shit, sorry, you’ve just overloaded on hot boy poison_ —except, okay,  _Harry_ , you’re getting off track now. 

 

Right. Nick Grimshaw. Nick with the pink and apple green silly string. Nick with the vagina muffins he places on Harry’s doorstep every Friday ( _yes_ , he still hasn’t given up). Nick with the stupid quiff and that bloody…  _face_  that makes Harry want to style his hair into a quiff  _himself_  solely for the purpose of ripping it out with a stupid, certain twat on his mind. Yeah, Nick’s not going to stop him from meeting his prince. 

 

He’s Cinderella for once—and that’s  _final_. Now all Harry needs to do is lose his shoe. Glass slipper, shoe, same thing. He needs to hop on, slide around that corner, and somehow throw his shoe and pretend not to notice that he did, indeed, throw his glass slipper next to burger guy’s feet. 

 

Okay, he can  _do_  this. 

 

  
_Shake your hips a little_ , Harry remembers Niall telling him on that fateful, rainy day.  _Remember to be subtle, but not too subtle. Leave him coming back for you, thrusting something in your face. Now, Harry, you decide what that something will be._

Puffing out his chest, Harry runs his hands over his bum—can’t let that dirt take control, huh,  _huh_? He smooths over the jeans, readjusts himself for…  _reasons_ , and takes his first step towards the stranger holding that particular burger ad. The wind’s making his hair flop around a bit, but it manages to still look prim enough for hot boys to look at, and the sun, well, that’s making sweat drip down his navel, past the dimples at his waist. 

 

_I wonder what it’d be like having that tongue lap me up._

“Burgers are only three dollars, come get one today,” the guy drones again. “They’re not half as bad as they were when I was the chef. You won’t die like that guy, I swear.”

 

Okay. Note #1: _Do not ever ask burger guy to cook for you_. 

 

Harry slides past pretty boy and blows some curls out of his face. He doesn’t like when his hair gets as long as it is now, hates the way he has to be his own personal leaf blower— _Harry Styles: 101 Edition._ But, honestly, that’s the least of his worries now, ‘cause burger guy’s looking straight at him (oh god, he hopes that’s not an indicator of straightness) and Harry’s not sure what step he should do first. 

 

Pretend to buy something first, then walk out unsatisfied so the stranger will talk to him? That—no. Walk by and throw shoe first? Grab a soda from the vending machine beside burger guy and initiate small talk? 

 

…Shoe plan. Stick to the shoe plan. 

 

So Harry keeps on walking, feels the hot sun burning its eyes into his bum—oh, Sun, you  _perv_ —and finds himself tipping his body to the side, hand ready for action, and then burger guy has his hands in his Lycra pockets and he’s flashing a charming smile at a blonde girl who, yes, pecks his cheek as she walks by him to go into the store, and he wipes  _that_  off his face immediately. Gay test?  _Probably_  failed. 

 

Time to shine. Harry slips off his shoe, tries not to cringe or wrinkle his nose at the smell of feet that fills the air (burger guy might, though, but Harry is not going to think about that, it’s time for  _this_  and not that) and throws the leather shoe down the sidewalk. The hot guy looks down at his feet where the shoe lay, sees Harry casually—or not so casually—reading a  _People’s_  magazine when he looks up, and then he’s bending down to pick up the shoe. 

 

Harry realizes that, maybe, he should’ve covered up his blue polka dotted sock with the magazine instead (would that be subtle?) as well as take off his other shoe and, like, hide it, ‘cause the guy is coming up to Harry, shoe in hand, and he’s  _on to him_. 

 

“Hey, mate,” burger guy says, “you threw your shoe at me.”

 

Harry looks up at him. “Shoe? What shoe? Last time I checked, I had no shoes  _on_. Was back in ‘99 the last time I ever felt the soft brush of shoe pads against my toes.”

 

“Right,” the guy tells him. “But you’ve the other pair on,” he points to Harry’s right foot, “it’s  _literally_  the exact same shoe.”

 

“Well,  _yes_ ,” Harry replies. “Every lad’s gotta have one shoe on his foot to keep him company at night.”

 

“Right,” burger guy says again, blinking down at him like he’s used to this kind of behaviour. Like he’s used to it on a  _daily basis_. He didn’t—no, he couldn’t have. Harry may come here every day, but he’s not a giver away–er by any means.  _Keep it cool, keep your cock soft, and don’t stare at the arse too much_. “Well, you put this on anyway and I’ll run in and get you a burger.”

 

“…I don’t  _want_  a burger,” Harry says, but makes no effort to get up as he sees pretty boy drop his ad sign, lean it up against the wall, and open the door. 

 

“Well I do, so hang in there. I’ll be back with my  _three dollar burger_ ,” he says, then yells the last bit at bystanders filling up their vehicles with gasoline at the gas station right in front of Burgeria, “and a  _one dollar milkshake,_ ” he also yells, but yet no one looks at him (again), “for me and my new mopping mate. Get it? ‘Cause you’ve got curls the height of Mount Everest.”

 

“Yeah, I get it.”

 

He disappears in the fast food restaurant—is it even a restaurant?—in the blink of an eye, and out he comes a minute later, hot burger wrapped up in silver tin paper and a medium vanilla milkshake under his upper arm. His cheeks look like they’ve been pinched, but Harry—Harry wouldn’t have pegged him as the masochistic type. I mean, he knows he has this  _affect_  on people, but didn’t know the extreme measures this beautiful boy might’ve taken in less than two  _minutes,_ you _know_ —

 

He’s cut off by a blank look. “Take a bite,” burger guy tells Harry, “it was only three dollars.”

 

“Yeah, think I’ve got that part covered.”

 

“Nah,” the bloke says, smiling around a bite of his burger. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s talking over a mouthful of meat, lettuce, bread and sesame seeds. “ _This burger_ was free, unlimited access to my mate Zayn’s employee card ‘n all. I was talking about my shorts.“

_“Your shorts.”_

“Yeah, they were three bucks,” he answers, and there are those sesame seeds on his lips. Harry wants to lick them off. And maybe lick his way into the other boy’s mouth until he’s putty in his arms. “Don’t think I don’t see those curls bouncing around the corner every afternoon, ‘cause I do. And the way you stare at my bum?” Burger guy gropes his arse, kneading the mounds of flesh with his hands, all tendons present. Harry wants to lick a stripe up them, wants to suck his fingers and pop them out from between his lips. “ _I see that too_.”

 

“Right,” Harry says, echoing burger guy’s earlier words. “Won’t deny that.”

 

The guy lets the breeze swipe through his hair, just continues eating until there’s nothing left but his milkshake. His plain old vanilla milkshake. 

 

“‘Course,” he says, sipping at the shake. Harry tries hard not to overthink that rather whiny  _oh_ , because that never does you any good. “So, you gonna not deny your shoe scheme?”

 

“Shoe scheme?” Harry asks, playing the oblivious one. Satan knows Harry is not oblivious, but burger guy does  _not_. 

 

The  _People’s_  magazine in his hands is beginning to slip as his fingertips become too oily, and he has to flip the page. Vanessa Hudgens: ‘ _I struggled with having boobs_ ’. Harry flips to the front— _J–14_. Huh, guess this isn’t a  _People’s_  magazine. Oops.

 

“Hi,” burger guy says, getting Harry’s attention again. “We both know you’re lying—by the way, you’re a  _terrible liar—_ but even I know you’re not going to admit your shoe scheme. Not even ten years from now when you talk to all your twenty four cats about that hot boy with the bubble butt at Burgeria’s.” He sips his milkshake. “So let’s act like that has not happened every day for the past month, yeah?” 

 

Harry decides that, yes, they can do that. He flips his hair and smooths it out with his hands, and when he looks up, the other boy is looking at him like he’s a prophet or something. 

 

“Okay,” he says, a grin beginning to highlight his face.  _And here come the dimples_.  

 

“Louis,” burger guy tells him, tossing the tin paper in the beige garbage bin to their right. 

 

“'M Harry, then.”

 

“Mm, I bet you are,” Louis says, wiping some whipped cream off his bottom lip.  _Louis_. Harry knows he’ll have a name to moan as he wanks to mental images of Louis’ arse now, and that leaves Harry feeling satisfied. 

 

“Nope,” Harry says. “Clean as ever.”

 

The sound of Louis’ remaining milkshake being sucked up through a too thin of a straw has Harry alert, not so lost in his mind anymore, but not as much as the way the hand— _Louis’_  hand—brushing across his hip bone right where his shirt is riding up has him. Then, Louis’ hopping up, yelping out a “welp” and opens the garbage lid to throw in his cup. 

 

“Better get back to work, the job’s calling me,” he tells Harry, shuffling about, and Harry just sits there, magazine in his hands, and his shoe from that shoe scheme that he  _obviously_  did not partake in, and licks his lips. 

 

  
_You found out his name. Come back tomorrow, ask to go on a date. Remember, don’t let him cook the food_. 

 

He slides in through the glass doors like a slithering snake not a moment after, and Harry’s left there alone now. A fellow from inside the restaurant comes out, bubbly and alive, and his blonde hair and snapback remind Harry of a frat boy. He’s wearing one of those low scoop neck tanks that dangle all the way down to his waist, too, and okay,  _definitely a frat boy_.  

 

He picks up Louis’ ad sign and raises it above his head, continually looking behind him at the window, and then suddenly he’s bursting out laughing and ignoring all the annoyed stares coming from their fellow gas station friends. He nods his head back to the window as he shuffles his feet in that same direction, makes eye contact with Harry, and the grin stays in place as Harry turns around to glance at what’s got this lad so giddy about. 

 

There, sticking to window, is a hot pink post it note with black sharpie printed all across it.  _You know, I never kid when my arse and biting is involved. You can still take a bite._


End file.
